


Insta-heart

by slipgoingunder



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grocery Store, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Solo just wants to go down on Rey, Counter Sex, F/M, Gig Economy Rey, Gratuitous Smut, Grocery Shopping, Hurt/Comfort, Instacart, Obnoxious customer Ben Solo, Oh No He's Hot, POV Rey (Star Wars), Shameless Smut, Texting, a little bit, as usual, there was only one fridge, we really need to talk about the gig economy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-07 14:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipgoingunder/pseuds/slipgoingunder
Summary: Ben Solo is an Instacart shopper's worst nightmare: rude, demanding, and extremely particular about his produce.Fuck this guy.No, really:Fuck. This. Guy.





	1. Kylo_ren needs his alkaline water

**Author's Note:**

> It's as simple as this: Rey is Ben's Instacart shopper. Everything else writes itself. 
> 
> **There are realistic texts in this chapter, so please read it in Ao3 with the author's styling enabled if you can!**
> 
> If you aren't familiar with Instacart, here's what you need to know: IC is app-based service where customers order groceries from a local store and "shoppers" (IC contractors) sign up to physically shop for those items in the store and deliver the order to the customer. It's a bit like Uber or Lyft but with grocery shopping. During the "shop," the customer can monitor their progress in real time, and there can be a lot of back and forth between them. The customers can also leave specific requests and instructions via the app.
> 
> Thanks to @selunchen and @delia-pavorum for amazingly good course correction. And @terestrial for coming up with this fic's TRUE NAME: "Insta-cock"
> 
> UPDATE: This [fic was read aloud on the Fangasm podcast](https://www.fangasmpodcast.com/star-wars). (I haven't listened yet because I can't really hear people read my Reylo porn aloud without doubling over in cringe.)

🍆🍆

Rey adjusts her sling and brace so that she can prop her immobile left arm on the handle of the shopping cart. It's her phone hand now. And even though she's not supposed to be taking on Instacart shifts until she's healed, she needs the money. 

She can just work twice as hard with her right arm. 

It helps that Rey has a set of rules for each "shop:" an order of operations that guarantees maximum efficiency, even in her one-armed state. 

For example, she always scans the customer's order before pushing her cart in any direction, mentally grouping the items into zones. It's pretty much the only time she's stationary during a shop. The less you move the cart around, especially when the store is crowded like this, the better. 

> **Le Pain Des Fleurs Crispbread — Buckwheat **  
[note: Pay attention to the flavor. Buckwheat ONLY. Don't substitute fucking WASA crackers for this.]
> 
> **Newman's Own 1.5oz Raisins 6ct boxes**  
[note: Don't even THINK about substituting Sunmaid. If I see that woman with the basket, I'm zeroing out the tip.]
> 
> **Cappello's Paleo Friendly, Gluten Free, Grain Free Fettuccine 9oz**  
[note: Fettuccine is not the same as spaghetti. It's a flatter, wider noodle. NOT THE SAME.] 
> 
> **Toblerone Dark** **3.52oz**  
[note: DARK. Make sure it's DARK. Do NOT substitute milk chocolate or any other brand. White chocolate can fuck off.] 

She knows to look for the most time-consuming shit immediately, like deli items (always hit the deli counter first—the employees at the Publix sandwich counter have no sense of urgency). Frozen stuff comes first or last, depending on how much there is. Sometimes fancy refrigerated juices are hiding in the produce section. 

And this order, from "Kylo_ren," has about five different cold pressed juices, all labeled with an angry "ORGANIC ONLY!" in the notes. All in different flavors. Green Energy Machine. Boosted Blue Machine. Beet it Better. Double Berry Protein. So the store is guaranteed to be out of at least one of them. It's some kind of Instacart law of averages. 

Rey yanks her earbuds out of her ears with her right hand, shoving them into her jeans pocket. She can't listen to podcasts while she shops; she needs focus. Turns out, the perfect soundtrack is the generic, aggressively inoffensive grocery store playlist. 

"_Wh-oa-oa-oh-oh-oh!_"

"Music that makes white people want to spend more money," is what Finn calls it. He's the one who referred her to Instacart when Luke's grant ended. Back when they were still experimenting with being "more than friends." 

And now they're experimenting with "not really speaking."

But she and Instacart are still on pretty good terms. 

And the Finn thing will work itself out. Eventually.

"_We don't even have to try, it's always a good time!_" Upbeat pop earworms from seven years ago really make grocery shopping seem fun, don't they? So _motivating_. 

What's _actually_ motivating is the money she stands to make from this particular shop. 

Typically, she'd avoid a batch with _two_ cases of water, given her injury. But the earnings estimate is decent, plus a tip of $8.99, and she'd been less than a mile away from the store when the offer came in. With any luck, it's a delivery to a house and not an apartment with four flights of stairs and no elevator.

Some IC shoppers are picky about the batches they'll accept. They won't do Costco runs or carry large cases of things, or take on big orders. Rey takes on almost anything, within reason. Netting three or five dollars, after she factors in mileage, is still three or five more dollars than she has right now. 

And every dollar matters to her.

She'd gotten the hang of the strategy immediately, after tagging along with Finn a few times and watching some Youtube videos. Shopping quickly, smoothly, and efficiently is the key. And if she has to lug a couple cases of water up a few flights of stairs, with one arm? Fine. It's exercise. And maybe the customer is a kindly, elderly lady, who's grateful for the help and will hand her a cash tip—in addition to the in-app tip—out of sympathy.

Rey takes one more glance at the order, noting that the cases of water are something called "Alkaline88" and mentally acknowledges that this is definitely not going to be a kindly elderly lady. Nope. 

In fact, Rey has gotten pretty good at profiling customers based on the quirks of their shopping lists. And this one? Classic InstaClown. 

He's selected about a dozen Clif Bars, but not a box of them. No. He wants various quantities of each flavor. Two Oatmeal Raisin Walnut. One Chocolate Brownie. Three Chocolate Chip. Two Blueberry Crisp. One White Chocolate Macadamia. Oh, but not Peanut Butter. _Noooo. _It would be _crazy_ to want that one!

Rey is about ninety-five percent sure the customer is a "he." She can tell this person doesn't really cook meals for a family. Or any other human, most likely. His order primarily consists of smoothie ingredients and random condiments.

And the "special instructions" are aggro as fuck. 

> **Roland Black Truffle Oil**  
[note: BLACK. Not white. BLACK TRUFFLE OIL. Read the label.]
> 
> **Badia Pink Himalayan Salt**  
[note: HIMALAYAN. If it's not Himalayan, DON'T BUY IT! And NOT Morton brand. Just, NO.]

She swipes to officially start the timer on the shopper app and pushes the cart toward the produce while copying and pasting her standard text greeting into the customer chat. (One of her strategies is to earn goodwill early in the shop with these obnoxiously cheerful messages, borrowed from Finn's Notes app because he has friendliness down to a science.)

Kylo_ren  
  
**Today** 8:21 PM  
Hi, this is RJ, your personal Instacart Shopper. 😀  
I will now begin shopping for your items. Please watch your phone for notifications in case I need to make substitutions. If you have any special requests or want to add/remove items, just let me know.  
Thanks for using Instacart! 👍   
  


Some Instacart shoppers don't like picking produce. At least, that's what Rey's read on a few of the forums. Anything that doesn't have a barcode is an extra step. Sometimes you have to find a scale and weigh things. 

But she enjoys it: choosing the best looking pineapple, or the zucchini with the fewest amount of knicks. It's fun when customers order odd things, like pluots or dragonfruit—foods that Rey hadn't even seen until recently. She'd grown up in a household where the food wasn't particularly..._nutrient dense_. That's the polite way to phrase it. Michelle Obama's slightly healthier school lunch program had provided most of her daily allowance of vitamins and minerals. 

> **1 16oz package Organic Strawberries**  
[note: Ripe berries only. That means not white in the middle.]
> 
> **3x Mangoes—Tommy Atkins Variety**  
[note: Select 3 with VARYING levels of ripeness.]
> 
> **4x Signature Lemons, Meyer**  
[note: Meyer Lemons are NOT the same as regular lemons. READ THE LABELS.]
> 
> **1 10oz package Organicgirl Baby Spinach**  
[note: Do NOT replace with generic store brand. Check for wilted leaves!]

She can tell by the notes that Kylo_ren is, uh, _particular_. Which means she'll be a tiny bit more careful with her selection. Sometimes, when customers leave notes like this, it means they'll actually appreciate thoughtfully chosen fruits and veggies and increase her tip after the delivery.

Sometimes it means they're just difficult assholes. 

Unfortunately, it's after 8 pm, which means the shelves aren't as robust as they were when she was here at 2 pm for her first shop. She starts with the mangos, choosing one that looks pretty green, and two other yellow ones that seem to fit his request. 

She taps FOUND ITEM and enters "3" as the quantity, as she moves on to the citrus, scanning the bins for Meyer lemons because God forbid this man should have a non-Meyer lemon.

A red dot with a tiny _1_ appears over the customer chat. 

Maybe he's just acknowledging her greeting. 

She taps on the icon, opening the chat. 

**Customer: Kylo_ren**Kylo_ren  
  
**Today** 8:23 PM  
**Kylo_ren: **Send a photo of the mangos.  
  


Weird flex, but okay. Rey sighs, positions the camera over the fruit, waits for it to focus, and hits send while reaching for a five dollar lemon. 

Another red dot.

Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **The one on the end is too green.   
  
I want to eat it on Friday, not in two weeks.  
  
**Shopper: **Fair enough! The selection isn't huge tonight, but I'll look for one with a bit more yellow!  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Take a photo of the mango bin. I'll circle the ones I want.   
  


Rey sighs, looking at the time ticking down in the app, as she snaps the requested photo. She uses the delay to grab the spinach (_looks fresh enough_), make a judgment call on the strawberries (_sorry bro, the conventional ones are way riper than the organic_) and pick out the rest of the Meyer lemons. Twenty dollars on _lemons_. 

Income inequality? _What income inequality?_ Surely this man must _deserve_ each of these five dollar lemons more than Rey deserves an entire bag of navel oranges.

Sometimes the only way to get through these cringe-inducing orders is to think of the customer as nothing more than a chatbot. It's not personal. It's just a new function of Alexa, randomly ordering a bunch of bougie groceries because capitalism. This isn't a real person who's treating her like garbage. It's just Siri. 

He still hasn't replied and she's ready to move on to the next aisle. 

So she nudges. 

**Shopper: **Sounds like you have a wild Friday planned 😉  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Excuse me?  
  
**Shopper: **I admire the way you've scheduled your fruit consumption 🤘  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Can we keep the chat to a minimum?   
  
I use this app so I don't have to engage in small talk.   
  
Get these:   
  
  
And I want all the produce BAGGED.   
  


Rey huffs out a breath through her nose. _This guy_. _This fucking guy_. 

She tears off four of those impossible-to-open plastic produce bags and throws them in the cart, saving the task for later, since there might be a line at check out. She tries not to think about how many thousands of years it will take for the bags to break down in a landfill somewhere. 

Rey quickly tackles the pantry and ingredients aisle. Truffle oil (_black!_) and Himalayan Pink Salt (_not Morton's, because he _wants_ to spend two more dollars on fancier packaging_) get checked off. The two cases of alkaline water (_why???_) go on the bottom of the cart, and then it's onto the freezer section, which looks straightforward enough. 

> **Kodiak Cakes Blueberry Power Waffles**  
[note: It should go without saying that EGGO is not an acceptable substitute.]

_Charming_. 

And, naturally, the store is out of Blueberry because it's been hours since a restock. 

You can't make good time on a shop without doing replacements quickly. Sometimes they're simple—subbing out one size for another when something's not on the shelf. Sometimes you take your best guess at another flavor and hope for the best. Either way, it's best to pick a thing, scan it, and let the customer tell you 'no.' What you _don't_ want is to get involved in a time consuming back and forth via customer chat. 

Rey opens the freezer door and grabs the chocolate chip variety, humming along with "Come to My Window." It's not EGGO and it looks almost the same. Waffles with little dark bits in them. He probably won't even notice until he takes a bite. She shrugs, scanning the replacement into the app while half-jogging back to the cart. 

Speed can double your hourly earnings average. And this shop has probably been her slowest of the week. Rey can almost feel her stats falling as the seconds tick by.

"Crawl inside, wait by the light of the mo-oon," Rey sings to herself, as she drops the waffles into the cooler bag that Finn bought for her birthday last month, not even realizing that she knew these lyrics by heart. That happens a lot at the supermarket. You start to comprehend just how many Sheryl Crow songs have fully permeated your brain. At least, she thinks this is Sheryl Crow.

She's crossing the aisle to retrieve a box of Jones's Dairy Farm All Natural Little Pork Sausages when she notices the little red dot over the chat. _Fantastic_. Round two with the backseat shopper.

Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Chocolate chip and blueberry are NOT the same thing  
  
**Shopper: **The merchant is out of blueberry, chocolate chip was the sub sugesjtid by the app.  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Oh the app "sugesjtid" it?   
  
Then, by all means, just put it in the cart!   
  
Don't even give it a second thought, or check with me.   
  


Her arm is starting to ache.

**Shopper: **Ma'am, do you want me to text you about every sub?  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **1\. Read the NOTES   
  
2\. Notify me about EVERY substitution with photos   
  
3\. Do I sound like a "ma'am" to you?   
  
**Shopper: **Would you like Buttermilk & Vanilla flavor instead? Or Peanut Butter?  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **I'm ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS.   
  
READ THE FUCKING NOTES!!!!!  
  
**Shopper: **I think Buttermilk & Vanilla would go great with your "All Natural Little Pork Sausages." 👀  
  
They are, indeed, little.  
  


_Shit_. Maybe that was inappropriate. Rey is usually pretty good at keeping her cool. Until she isn't. 

No response. _Naturally_. It's always the most persnickety assholes who want to be notified and then don't check their damn phones. Meanwhile, the clock is still ticking away, her stats dropping lower and lower. So she keeps moving, running over to the frozen vegetable case for three bags of riced cauliflower (_barf_) and to the ice cream aisle for four different flavors of Talenti Gelato (_the fuck?_), cradling them in her sling. At least it's good for something. 

On the way back to the cart, something catches her eye. 

**Shopper: **How abt this ma'am? It's blueberry.  
  
  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Stop fucking around and just pick the products IN MY ORDER, on the screen in front of you.   
  
And stop calling me that.   
  
**Shopper: **I assumed you were a woman because of all those yogurts on your list.  
  
My bad.  
  


Rey begins to photograph each yogurt variety, whistling along to the saxophone hook of "Careless Whisper" blaring over the refrigerated section.

**Shopper: **Speaking of yogurts, please approve each of these:  
  
  
  
  
  
Icelandic yogurt, huh?  
  
Siggi's really hooked you.  
  
Is it good?  
  
I'm more of a Danimals kinda girl myself.  
  
  
  
  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Girl?  
  
**Shopper: **Oh, forgot one:  
  
  
  
Drinkable? Really livin on the edge there.  
  
I'm gonna scan these if you don't have any objections.   
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **JFC I don't want photos of EVERYTHING.  
  
Just the SUBSTITUTIONS.  
  
**Shopper: **Copy that.  
  
Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **Did you check the expiration dates on those yogurts?  
  
**Shopper: **Nope!  
  


Rey turns the cart a sharp ninety degrees into the "school lunch" aisle, on the hunt for his raw cashew nut butter. Which is, of course, not there. _Fantastic. _

She taps "I can't find this item" and waits for the app to suggest a substitute. 

It delivers: Santa Cruz Organic Creamy Dark Roasted Peanut Butter. 

God, that sounds delicious. Who knew you could "dark roast" peanuts? She could make lunches for days with that jar. Dip Oreos into that jar.

But he has a fucking peanut allergy, so obviously almond butter would be the logical choice. There's a jar of Justin's Maple Almond Butter that she could easily scan in manually, overriding the app's suggestion. 

Just as she's about to reach for it, the red dot reappears.

Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **I can't spend the next hour on the phone, fucking babysitting you while you struggle to do something as straightforward as pick out groceries.   
  
I'm PAYING YOU to perform a service.   
  
Stop fucking around and get it done.  
  
**Shopper: **Right. At this rate, I'm making less than min wage, so that's the level of quality assurance you're getting rn. k?   
  
😘😘😘😘  
  


Rey is about to put an end to this suffering and report his ass to Shopper Happiness, when another message pops up.

Kylo_ren  
**Kylo_ren: **It's not my problem that you're unhappy with your station in life.  
  


Her "station in life." _Station in life?_ Who _talks _like that?! The phone feels like it's burning in her hands. 

Her thumb hovers over the Shopper Happiness icon. She could cut this off right now, report him, and hope for another batch to come through. 

Or…

She picks up the Creamy Dark Roasted Peanut Butter, scans it into the app and drops it in the cart. 

It's not that she wants him to eat it. It's just this little loophole about Instacart shopping: when the customer isn't happy with something you deliver, the shopper can mark it as a refund. Technically, you're supposed to take it back to the store, but you don't have to. In fact, you can just _keep it_. 

And she can just picture dipping a spoon into the perfectly smooth top of that freshly opened jar. It's one of life's little pleasures, really. 

If he "can't spend the next hour on his phone," maybe he won't be monitoring the substitutions. And some of the substitutions would make really great _additions_ to her own meager pantry. 

🍆🍆

At the register, as she swipes her Instacart-provided Mastercard, Rey admires her bounty as she fills the paper bags (plastic bags are too hard to load with only one good arm) with eighty percent correct items and twenty percent "creative replacements," which include: 

  * products she plans to take home (brand-name Coco Puffs, instead of the Heritage Flakes he requested)
  * petty in-category substitutions (a Kinder Bueno for his Dark Toblerone)
  * and a particularly hilarious IC shopper app algorithm mishap (Trojan Magnum Lubricated Latex Condoms for his Magnum Mini Classic Ice Cream Bars).

It's beautiful. And there's still no red dot over the chat icon, which means she's about to get through checkout with all of it.

Rey always waits until the bags are loaded in her trunk and she's physically behind the wheel before swiping on the green button to officially start the clock on her delivery window. 

She pastes another of Finn's boilerplate delivery messages into the chat, not as a courtesy, but as a test. 

**Shopper: **Hi (again), this is RJ, your Instacart shopper! I am departing the merchant. You can follow my location on the app. If you could describe your house or building, it will be easier for me to deliver your order. If you purchased alcohol, please have your ID ready, as I'm required to scan it to complete the transaction.  
  
If you find any items are missing, damaged, or just not to your liking, I can take them back and refund you. I will be in a white Kia Optima. See you soon!  
  


She drives for five minutes without any notifications, so presumably, he really _has_ been off his phone and oblivious to her extra curricular shopping shopping activities. 

_So far, so good_. She's not nervous at all. Not one bit. She will meet this "Kylo_ren" and hand him the bags without blinking. She'll watch as he glances down and bursts a blood vessel over a slight imperfection in one of his lemons. 

He's probably some gross looking middle-aged divorced dude with a receding hairline who spends all day on his laptop browsing Pornhub. He'll open the door wearing a MAGA hat and a Tom Brady jersey. He'll see that she's a nice young woman, wearing jeans and her (complimentary) Instacart t-shirt. Feeling deeply ashamed about his behavior—especially once he sees the sling and the brace—he'll pull out his wallet and hand her a hundred dollar bill. And let her keep the condoms. She can't imagine this condescending asshole having any chance of getting laid.

It doesn't take long for her to reach his apartment—actually a townhouse with a fuck-ton of stairs leading to the front door. Yeah, this looks like some douchebag's post-divorce mid-life crisis bachelor pad. _Gross_. 

She parks—crooked—in the little driveway in front of his garage and pops the trunk. She grabs her cooler bag and the bright blue IKEA bag that holds all the non-refrigerated bags. After three trips up the stairs (_thank you, two cases of alkaline water_), she rings the doorbell. 

It's surprising how she can actually feel her heart pounding, but it's totally because of the extra cardio. _Nothing bad is going to happen._ It's fine. Totally fine. 

There's no response. No sound of footsteps. No barking dogs. 

She pushes down on the doorbell again, clutching her phone tightly. 

There's like, seven percent chance of a murder happening. Maybe nine percent.

He's just some pathetic loser who can't hear the doorbell because he has his porn-watching headphones on. 

Rolling her eyes, she lifts up her phone to message him again on the app. 

**Shopper: **I'm on your stoop.   
  


Still nothing. 

"What the fuck," she whispers, knocking—really, _banging_—on the door with her right fist. The whole plan relies on him being _home_ so he can request about seven refunds. 

Calling Shopper Happiness isn't an option for another ten minutes. Meanwhile, she's probably missing the last potential order of her shift. 

As she raises her fist to hammer at the door one more time, it swings open. 

The expletive on the tip of her tongue gets caught in her throat. 

In her direct line of sight is a milky white chest. The skin has a slight...well, there's almost a _sheen _to it. And it's broad. Wide. Very close. A very close shiny pale chest. Yes. That's what answered the door. 

_Oh no_. 

_Oh no, he's hot._

Once Rey's brain has that information sorted, her eyes meander up to the face that's attached to the chest. Broad chest. Broad, shiny chest with a face. 

The face—which she's still trying to process—is staring back at her curiously, almost alarmed.

_There's something_...a familiar thing about it. Memorable. It's a face you'd find on some edgy show on premium cable that you only pretend to watch. 

"Rey?"

Oh god, it's...how could... _Fuck. _

"Luke's weird nephew?" 


	2. You want that tip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey from the doorway to the kitchen countertop can feel like a hundred miles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to [delia-pavorum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum) and [selunchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selunchen/pseuds/selunchen) for all your help.
> 
> And thanks to everyone who has opened their hearts to "Instacock."

Luke's Weird Nephew is…

Well, apparently he’s kind of hot when Rey is sober, too.

And the look on his face—admittedly, she’s struggling to keep her eyes focused up there—is vacillating between shocked and mildly offended. There’s more than a hint of embarrassment in there, too.

And it's possible she’s reflecting a similar combination of emotions back at him. 

“I—” she begins with absolutely no plan as to what to say next.

“You—” he utters, simultaneously, before closing his mouth and letting the movement of his jaw communicate his discomfort nonverbally. 

She’d been through two-thirds of a bottle of merlot at Luke’s opening, fresh off a “we need to talk” conversation with Finn. 

Maybe it’d been bad timing to attend an event with bottles of Trader Joe’s wine just sitting out there, unattended, and not nearly enough crackers and cheese cubes to mitigate the effects. 

Maybe she _had_ kind of noticed him earlier that night, not speaking to anyone, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the exit while his mother worked the room like a pro. 

Maybe they _had_ nodded at each other when Leia introduced them, instead of shaking hands. 

But, really, he could’ve been anyone. That’s what she’d told herself at the time, anyway. 

It’s also what she’d told Luke after he’d unexpectedly opened the door to the catering kitchen at exactly the wrong moment. 

"Nice...shirt." His eyes glance down from her face, lingering a second too long on the Instacart logo across her chest. 

"At least I'm wearing one." She swallows, glancing down at his black gym shorts. "Is this how you usually answer the door for a grocery delivery?"

"I didn't think you'd—anyone—would be standing here. I was on the treadmill." Rey is certain that many men who are sweaty and out of breath from perusing Pornhub give that same excuse. "Usually they just drop it off."

" 'They' do, huh? Well, I can't do that with wine.” Her throat feels tight. "I need to scan your ID to complete the delivery. As I clearly stated in my last message."

Rey had gone into to the gallery’s little kitchen in search of more crackers, not because she’d noticed “Ben Solo” quietly slipping in there a minute earlier. 

In her defense, it’s not like art openings attract tons of single, attractive straight men. And sometimes you just need to furiously make out with someone in order to get over a thing. 

_Anyone. _

Maybe he’d been seeking a respite from the small talk. Maybe he’d been looking for a bottle of wine with a cork instead of a screw top. 

He’d found something else. And he hadn’t exactly seemed disappointed

Far from it. 

And now they've been staring at each other over the threshold of the door long enough for it to be officially considered _awkward_.

"My wallet's inside." Ben looks around her to the bags sitting on the stoop at her feet. "I guess, come in?” He pauses. “How did you carry all that, with your, uh—" He gestures with his elbow. 

"You can say it. It's an '_arm_.' I usually don’t enter customer's homes. For—" she looks past him, into the house "—safety reasons. But whatever speeds this up."

Rey nudges the cases of water forward with her right foot. 

"Well, I'm not a murderer." _Yeah, just a really amazing make out partner and a nightmare customer_. "I didn't realize you had a—an injury." He picks up one a case of water in each hand. 

“Do you only berate Instacart shoppers with two working arms?” She reaches down to place the cooler bag on right shoulder.

Something about this feels humiliating, but she can’t decide if it’s because she’d shoved her tongue down his throat several weeks ago, or because of the confusing social dynamics of the gig economy. 

Turns out, she actually doesn't want a pity tip from Ben Solo. If he’s going to give her some extra money, she'd rather prove to him that she's more than capable of dragging multiple bags of Naked Juices into his kitchen. 

"Did you have that...uh—" he nods toward her sling "—at Luke's thing?"

"No.” She’s glad the bags give her an excuse not to make eye contact. “It actually happened that night. Later.” Maybe _she’s_ not making eye contact, but _he_ is certainly trying. “I, uh, tripped. Fell weird." 

The odd, almost concerned expression on his face makes her stomach do a little flip-flop. 

"I think I would've remembered if you were—" 

"Well, I manage just fine," she says, fighting back a grimace as she awkwardly shoulders both the IKEA bag and the cooler bag brushing past him, as she hauls them into his kitchen. “Turns out that you can get a perfectly good sling at CVS for like fifteen bucks using funds from your health savings account, so...thanks, Obama.”

He truly could’ve been anyone. That’s what she’s been telling herself, at least.

So what if it had started out as sloppy, wine-soaked kiss and turned into something strangely intense and, well, _handsy_?

So what if she hadn’t quite gotten the specifics of the whole encounter—like the way he’d touched her face, her neck, her shoulders, and unzipped the back of her dress—out of her head, despite the fact that she can’t remember the rest of the evening.

So what if she had Googled him later? So what if she'd found that he doesn't have a social media presence at all, but he _does _feature prominently in a number of local news stories, all featuring the same photo of him in a dark suit and sunglasses, following his boss onto a private plane, his black hair just the right length for blowing in the wind on the tarmac.

If what Luke says about him is true, she’d been right not to seek him out again. And his behavior on a certain grocery delivery app only seems to confirm that. 

And it wasn’t like he’d tracked her down the next day, either.

"Did you stop working for Luke?" he asks, his deep voice trailing close behind her, as he carries his precious alkaline water like it’s nothing.

"No. I still work at the studio. Do you want these on the counter, or—"

"You can set them down on the floor, I'll move them." 

Rey sets both carrier bags down on his slate tile floor and proceeds to single-handedly (literally) heft the paper bags up onto the counter, two at a time, because she is _perfectly_ capable of doing that, even with an injured arm. 

Anything to hurry this process along. 

"Luke pays you so little that you need to—" he looks uncertain about proper terminology. Like he doesn't even want to say _work for Instacart_. 

"His funding was slashed after the controversy." She continues lifting the bags onto the counter, while he watches, seemingly unsure about whether to jump in and help, or let her finish. "He had to bump me down to part-time. But, you know, a lot of people have two jobs. We can't all have decent health insurance and—" she looks around the tastefully appointed apartment, "—trust funds."

She places the last bag on the counter.

"I have a job," he insists. "I earn my—"

"I know who you work for." 

"You do?" he asks, a little wrinkle appearing over his nose. He takes a tiny step closer. "Ah. Fucking Luke. I'm probably his favorite topic of conversation."

"He literally never talks about you unless your mom stops by the studio." Rey pulls her phone out of her back pocket, eager to get this over with. Being alone with him again resurfaces some memories that she would probably kill to relive, but also make her want to die of embarrassment. “Your I.D.?" 

He hesitates for a moment—like he doesn’t really want to shift back into Instacart-mode—before muttering, “Fine,” and turning to retrieve his wallet from some other room in the house. 

"And I thought your name was Ben," she calls after him. Why does one man need so many rooms?

"Who's 'R.J.?' " he asks, walking back into the room with a black leather billfold in hand. 

"It's better to keep things gender-ambiguous." He rifles through the wallet, pulling out his license. "I don't need randos knowing my name when I'm shopping for them. Or that I'm a woman. What's 'Kylo_ren,' anyway?"

"I use a different name on—social media. It's a gaming thing that—"

"It’s fine, forget I asked." God knows she doesn’t need to prolong this interaction and discover an additional angry-gamer-dude level to his personality. She positions his ID in her stationary left hand while scanning it with the phone in her right. "Can you scroll through the order, acknowledge that you received it, and note anything that you don't want to keep?” 

She says that last part really quickly. 

While he opens the app on his phone, brow already furrowed in concentration, she allows her eyes to roam around the kitchen, which is, predictably, about four times the size of her kitchenette. His fridge is stainless steel and enormous—like the kind you find in a restaurant or on HGTV. He could probably fit, like, hundreds of Icelandic yogurts in there. There's a strong, fake-fresh fragrance, almost like fresh basil and citrus—something an upscale cleaning service would use a little too aggressively. Can't deal with a chocolate chips in his power waffles, can't do his own shopping, can't clean up after himself. 

_Good_. She’s glad to confirm that absolutely all of Luke's weird nephew's traits are negative. For about a week after the opening, she’d thought about him a lot. Wondered things about him. Allowed herself to ponder whether Luke had been exaggerating. 

But, no. Apparently not. _Bullet dodged_.

Now there’s just the little matter of claiming her peanut butter and getting the fuck out of here so she can shop for one last batch at Aldi or Sprouts or wherever the pinging app tells her to go. 

Except, Ben is going through the list—even the correct items—thoroughly. _Very_ thoroughly. 

She drums her fingers in a firm, belligerent rhythm on the marble countertop. 

It makes him slowly turn his head to face her. 

"Oh." She looks directly in his dark eyes without flinching. "Am I rushing you?"

He gives her one of those piercing stares again. 

"No. I could do this all night." 

"I'm sure you could," she replies, mentally picturing her stats for the month falling below the bonus threshold. And also picturing the way he’d turned her bun into sex-hair by tangling his large hand in it. "But the thing is, I still have time to shop one more order tonight, so if you could..." 

She makes a motion with her good arm that she hopes he interprets as _hurry the fuck up_. 

“Yeah, you always seem to be in a rush to leave,” he says, under his breath, returning his attention to the groceries. 

Easy for him to say, when she’s the one who had to endure the world’s most awkward conversation with Luke the next day, with her arm in a brace.

He places the gelato pints on the counter, one at a time, silently inspecting each label and matching them to the list. It’s like he’s making a show of eating up the last half hour of her shift.

"Why do you leave all those ridiculous notes in your order?" If he's going to take forever to do this, at least she call him out on his terrible texting manners. 

"Being specific keeps the back and forth with the shopper to the absolute minimum." He glances up at her. "Usually." His face softens the tiniest possible amount. “I’m not the best with...people. It’s easier if I can just type exactly what I want on a screen.”

“Yeah, but there’s a _person _at the other end who has to deal with your—” she stops herself from saying _bullshit_ “—requests. Do you ever think about that?”

“Do you ever think about how a nine dollar tip for grocery shopping is more than fair?”

_It’s really not_. It's like five percent and shopping is as hard as waiting tables sometimes.

He returns to his inventory of Talenti containers and Rey begins concocting a story in her imagination, where none of the gelato is for him at all. Instead, he's planning to invite a date to his house for dessert and they haven’t had the ice cream flavor conversation yet, so he's covering his bases. 

Ben Solo is not going to be delivering someone's Costco rotisserie chicken and paper towels tomorrow at 9 pm. He'll be..._entertaining_. Or whatever rich people call Netflix and chill. 

How nice for him. How nice that he can be totally belligerent to the person who’s buying his groceries and his date will never even know. Unless he’s rude to his dates, too. Maybe they don't care because he's a very good kisser. Rey consoles herself with the knowledge that Talenti containers are impossible to open, anyway. Maybe he’ll use a knife to force it open and hurt his hand. 

His large, beautiful hand—

"What the fuck is this?" He holds up the jar of peanut butter. 

_Finally._

"They were out of your—" she scrolls to find the product name on her phone "—raw cashew nut butter, but the app suggested this one as a replacement—"

“Didn’t I specifically inform you that I have a peanut allergy?” 

"Okay, well, _the app_ doesn't have access to your complete medical history." She taps on the screen and reaches for the jar. "I'll just put that down for a refund—" _yum, free fancy peanut butter _"—but, to be fair, you did tell me to only pick the products on the screen in front of me." 

"Ah, the 'just following orders' defense."

She drums her fingers again. It’s almost like he _wants_ to waste her time (and therefore, her money) by making her wait, as he slowly sorts through the bags, one item at a time. 

"Are you always this polite to gig economy workers, or is this just my lucky day?"

He pulls two of the yogurts out of the bag and checks the expiration dates before looking back up at her. 

"Do you always try to send your customers into anaphylactic shock, or is this just my lucky day?"

She watches him put the yogurts to the side—apparently finding nothing to complain about—and reach back in the bag. The muscles of his back flex in a way that’s..._uhhhh_...pretty difficult to ignore. She’s pretty sure she’d _felt_ those muscles that night, but she hadn’t seen them. Thank God she hadn’t seen them or Luke might have walked in to something even more incriminating.

And she’s also pretty sure there’s a slight sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

"Would you mind—could you maybe put a shirt on or something?"

Ben makes direct eye contact with her, while making zero effort to put a shirt on. 

He somehow seems to become _more_ naked as he digs through the bags. It’s probably just a trick of her mind. But his shoulder blades move beneath his creamy, freckled skin in a way that makes her curious about what would happen if her hand just happened to brush against—

"Kinder Bueno? _Kinder_—” He holds out the candy bar up like he's just unearthed something of enormous archaeological significance. “What isthis?" 

"It’s hazelnut cream and a crispy wafer covered in milk choc—"

"I _know _what it is, why did you buy it?"

"It's like ten times better than Toblerone, which they didn't have anyway. I did you a favor."

He tilts his head like he's spoiling for a fight.

“If you actually read my instructions, you would have noticed that I don’t eat—" he makes a sort of grimacing face, like he's pained to even say the words "—_milk chocolate._” 

Rey gazes at the red and white wrapper, with its tantalizingly airbrushed images of chocolate and hazelnuts, and feels her stomach cry out. She reaches her right hand up in front of him and grabs the package out of his hand, barely brushing his finger against hers.

“I do.” She shoves it in the back pocket of her jeans. “I eat it.”

He looks dumbfounded for a second, before allowing his eyes to drift downward, in the direction of her hand, and then her back pocket—and, therefore—her ass. 

"You're going to take that with you?"

"I mean, it’s no _white _chocolate, but I’m going to eat it in the car." 

He slowly draws his eyes back up to her face before glancing into the bags again, like he's about to put the final nail in the coffin. Of something.

Sure enough, he pulls out the box of Coco Puffs, raising an eyebrow. 

Rey gets that panicky feeling, like she’s been caught cheating on a test, even though that’s not something she’s ever done.

"They were out of your cereal! Seriously, I really did my best with the items that were in stock. Set aside anything you don't want and I'll return it." 

_To my kitchen_. 

He slides the Coco Puffs next to the peanut butter on the other side of the counter, like he needs these distasteful items to be as far away from him as possible. 

“Is there anything else in here that’s actually intended for _me_?” He sets his phone down on the counter and, maybe it’s her imagination, but he seems to grow an inch taller. 

"Of course." Rey stands up on her tiptoes to see down into the bags and pulls out a clear plastic container of strawberries. 

As she sets them on the counter, Ben’s eyes quickly scan over the label. 

“Are you serious? Conventional strawberries are fucking _covered_ in pesticides!”

“Your instructions said to find ripe—”

"_Organic _strawberries. These? Coated in toxins."

"They’re _fine_.” She holds up the container. “They looked better than the organic ones and you said you wanted them ripe. I was _trying_ to accommodate your stupid, petty demands, when strawberries aren’t even in fucking_ season_."

"What was so difficult about picking the products I _ordered_?"

"Listen, 'Hey Soul Sister' came on in that Publix.” Rey begins to gather “her” items with her right arm. “I heard Santana _twice_ while I was shopping for you, I should get _hazard _pay—"

"It’s your _job_. _You_ signed up for it. To pick out exactly what I want, how I specify. And I didn't order _condoms_." 

Does he have to say _condoms_ like that, in that voice, compelling her brain to conjure up the various ways she'd really wanted to use condoms with him the other night? 

"Yes.” She drops the peanut butter into her IKEA bag, followed by the Coco Puffs. “I should have assumed you'd have absolutely no use for them!"

“That’s odd, because last time I saw you, you seemed pretty disappointed that I didn’t bring a condom to an art opening.” 

“I wasn’t in my right mind.” She reaches for the strawberries, which are still in his grip. “_Obviously_.” 

He doesn't let go of them.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m taking them back, even though they're probably perfectly red in the middle, just like you _asked for_!”

“Oh, so you're going to eat my strawberries, too?” 

"As a matter of fact, _yes_. I'm going to eat all of them."

Rey tears the lid open, picks up a strawberry and sinks her teeth into it. 

Ben watches, wide-eyed and silent as the tart juice hits her tongue with a sharp acidic tang. 

She chews and swallows before holding up the top half of the berry and proclaiming, "_Red_."

Her tongue chases a tiny dribble of juice on her bottom lip. His dark, liquid eyes are laser focused on the little movement. 

He takes a step toward her and she finds herself moving an inch or two backward and it doesn't feel like he's paying attention to the strawberries anymore. 

"You—you didn't even wash that,” he says, almost dumbstruck, either by her insolence or ignorance of food safety protocol.

Rey shakes her head. "The pesticides add a nice, bright finish.”

He seems so much closer now, his bare chest expanding and contracting just in front of her two-sizes-too-big neon green Instacart t-shirt.

"You like how that tastes?" _Shit_, why is this making her stomach tighten?

She nods. "It's fucking delicious."

He closes the small gap between them. Some little trace of a sense memory comes rushing back to her. The way his long nose had brushed against her cheek and the low timbre of his voice in her ear, making all kinds of intriguing promises. 

There's no Luke to burst in and interrupt this time. 

_Fuck_. This could really happen again.

"Did you think you were going to take half my groceries home?" His voice sounds an octave lower than it was a minute ago.

"No." The sharp edge of the marble counter presses into her back. "Just the peanut butter. And the cereal."

He picks up one of the berries and tears off the green top. God, why couldn't he have put a shirt on?

Also, _thank you God._

"You want more?" 

Rey feels her own breath coming out in heavy bursts. 

"Yes." She leaves her mouth hanging slightly open.

He pushes the strawberry between her lips and Rey catches herself moaning as the seed-covered skin runs across her tongue. There’s an explosion of sweet and tart flavors—_yeah, she really did pick a nice, ripe container of berries_—when she bites down.

She lets him brush his fingertips over her lips, ignoring the subtle, sonar-like ping coming from some murky depths in her brain:

*ping* _He’s an asshole. _

*ping* _No social skills. _

It reminds her of the Instacart app nagging her about an expiring offer. It just pings for four minutes and there's nothing you can do to shut it off. It's like some kind of aural punishment for refusing to accept a bad batch offer with a low tip. The company tries to just annoy you into it. 

*ping* _Uses a food delivery app to engage in dick swinging contests with underpaid gig economy workers._

On the other hand…

His body is so solid against her and the need to rip her own freebie t-shirt off and feel his smooth, pale skin create absolutely no friction against hers is drowning out the gentle, sensible pinging. 

He runs his forefinger across her bottom lip and she finds herself opening her mouth, like an invitation. 

*ping* _For god’s sake, don’t do this with Luke’s weird nephew. _

Yeah, her body doesn’t give a fuck about what Luke thinks right now. Not when there's this hungry, half-crazed look in his eye, like he’s about to step across some invisible line and she’s on the other side, ignoring the red flags and waving him over.

His shoulders start to bend over hers, prompting her to lean back as he drops the strawberries on the counter. The sharp folded corners of the crisp paper bags on the counter poke at the back of her neck. She can't say she minds. 

"Fucking..." He seems to lose his train of thought as his eyes scan up and down her face. "You want this?" 

"Y-yeah," she answers, well before her conscious mind has time to consider any other response. The prospect of another trip to Aldi floats right out of her mind. Whatever _this_ is, she wants it.

Is this hate sex? Rey has never had hate sex before. Or _I'm in love with you_ sex. Really, her experience is limited to _we really like each other and this movie is boring, so..._ sex. 

He pulls at her t-shirt. "Off."

"Yeahyeah, off—" she mumbles, letting her eyes flutter shut. His fingers are a little colder than her own skin, probably from the gelato, and it makes her shiver a little bit when they move under the hem to her belly. He's bunching up the fabric and tugging upward and she pictures them just clawing at each other like fucking animals, and _yes, yes, good, keep going, holy shit this is finally happening_... 

...and then she feels the shirt drop back down to her waist and he takes a half-step back as she blinks her eyes open. 

"Wh-what is it?" 

"How do I—" he glances down to the sling, like he's trying to puzzle something out "—with your arm? I don't want to—"

Rey hadn’t considered how a broken arm could impact the _clawing at each other like fucking animals_ part of things. 

You're supposed to wear shirts that close in front when your arm is immobilized in a sling, but Rey only owns a couple button-down shirts, both of which she saves for her day job. She also hasn't been in a position to have someone else remove her shirt since the injury. 

"Here." Rey uses her right hand to unfasten the cross body strap of the sling and slide it off. "I can do it, I'm used to—"

"Just let me help you—"

They both grab for the hem at the same time and freeze.

"It's easier if I just do it," she insists, shrugging out of his grasp.

He watches, pouting a bit—_he's kind of a big baby, isn't he?_—as she struggles to maneuver the right half of the shirt up her body, contorting herself in a way that usually gets the job done, but only manages to get the fabric halfway over her head this time. 

"Will you hold still?" he scolds, while she huffs out an annoyed little breath. 

His hand brushes against her bare skin again as he lifts the shirt over her awkwardly crooked elbow. Holding still has never really been that easy for her. 

"It goes over my good side first," she says through the cotton-poly blend. 

Ben gently pulls it up and over her right shoulder and her head. 

"They're both good sides." She's surprised at the care with which he eases the shirt down her injured arm. "Do you need to put the sling back on?"

Does she?Rey has never considered this situation, but there's nothing very alluring and wild-hate-sex-y about a CVS-brand adjustable black sling over an otherwise naked torso. 

"I think I can just try to keep it still."

Grabbing her right shoulder, he turns her around so she's facing the countertop. _Yes. Oh God. Here we go_. _Straight into the angry porno-style banging. _

But instead, his hand runs up her spine to the closure of her stretchy bralette. He pushes her forward, bending her over slightly, before working at the hooks and eyes. Usually Rey just pulls the thing off over her head, but she's kind of enjoying how his cool hands feel against her skin while he struggles with it. 

And it feels pretty amazing when the last hook pops open and the lightly padded bra falls away from her breasts and down her arms. It's like the sweet relief of removing your bra at the end of a long day, multiplied by the excitement of your clothing ripped off by a large, frustratingly hot, half-naked man.

It's a big multiplier. 

She feels his mouth working across her shoulders, triggering a flurry of a tiny little shivers in his wake. It’s not exactly the raw, untamed sexual energy she had anticipated. It's almost—_tender_? Actually...Rey has never been one to spend a ton of time on foreplay, but _holy shit_, this could go on all evening, and she'd be lining up for more, like Oliver Twist asking for a second portion of gruel. 

"Did you know who I was?" he says into her neck. "Is this what you wanted? An excuse to come over here?"

"No." Rey hears herself breathe way too heavily, like she's on the third mile of an uphill jog. "I thought you were just some asshole customer. And I was correct."

"You buy condoms for all the customers you shop for?" 

"No. I only fuck with the assholes."

"How big of an asshole do I need to be so that you'll keep fucking with me?"

And maybe that's the first moment she realizes that this isn't a bluff. That this whole thing isn't just some strange, angry-horny fever dream brought on by a batch of strawberries laced with sex pollen pesticides. Because his large, strong, apparently very capable hands find their way to the button and zipper of her jeans, and he tugs them down as she toes her running shoes off and kicks them to the side. 

Suddenly, she's standing in Luke's weird nephew's kitchen, leaning over a countertop, with only a threadbare pair of underwear as the dividing line between partially clothed and totally naked. 

And his hands are gripping the either side of the blue elastic waistband.

Maybe he's a disaster of an internet person, a morally bankrupt professional, and "not good with people," but holy fucking shit, he _is_ good at this.

"Keep going?"

If ever there were a moment to put a stop to this and reconsider everything about this, uh, delivery, this would be it. 

And so, with the conviction of a woman who knows what she wants, and is about to miss out on a trip to Aldi that might net her seventeen dollars, she replies: 

"Fuck, _yes_."

A second later, she feels her underwear around her ankles.

His hands are..._Jesus_, he doesn't waste time reaching around to her breasts, while deftly avoiding her left arm. Lower...lower..._lower_ as his mouth works its way down her back, one inch at a time. Rey hadn't expected anything kiss-adjacent this time, but apparently he likes putting his mouth on _her_, if not on conventional strawberries.

Something creamy is dripping and pooling onto the marble an inch or two from her hand. 

"Your Talenti pints are melting," she says, setting the container of Mediterrean Mint upright on the counter. 

"I don't fucking care."

Rey turns her head. 

"You seemed to care _a lot_ when I had to dig through the freezer to find your organic ginger matcha gelato."

"I like things a certain way." He nudges her feet further apart with his own enormous foot.

"I double-checked those flavors. My arms were freezing."

"You think you deserve a prize for that?" he says roughly, his left hand palming her ass cheek.

"Good service deserves a generous gratuity." She makes an embarrassingly loud moaning sound when the fingers of his right hand brush across her clit. 

He stands all the way up and turns her around again to face him. 

"You want that tip, don't you?"

Suddenly Rey can see his face and the whole thing becomes a lot more _real_, because he looks both determined and wild-eyed. She watches his eyes drift down to her breasts and down her body like there's nowhere else to look. 

"Y-yes. I want it." Her chest visibly heaves at the bottom of her peripheral vision.

_I am about to fuck Luke's weird (hot) nephew_. 

Placing his hands at her waist, he lifts her up onto the countertop, cold against her ass.

"Not yet."

She's an inch or two taller than him now and when she tilts her head down to his and their lips meet, there's something needy, hungry, desperate about the way they open to each other. Maybe it helps that she tastes like perfectly ripe strawberries, but she hasn't kissed someone like that since…

...well, the last time, in a different kitchen.

Ben runs his mouth down the column of her throat to her chest, lingering over her breasts, being just slightly too rough with them, but in a way she doesn't at all mind. There's nothing for her to do but watch as he shoves aside the forgotten groceries on the counter to her right and left, and places his hand just below her collarbone. He pushes her back, being mindful of her left arm tucked in against her chest, until her back is against the cool marble, her legs dangling over the lower cabinets.

He grabs hold of the back of her thighs, slides her forward a few inches, and pushes her legs open wider. Just as she's wondering if they should have the safe sex talk now (they should've had it five minutes ago) and where exactly that box of condoms ended up, she feels his breath against her inner thigh. 

Her eyes go wide. Rey's head snaps up from the counter and it turns out it takes a lot of abdominal strength to sit up on only one working elbow. 

"What are you—"

"Is this okay?" he murmurs into—well, she can feel the vibrations more than hear it clearly. 

"Is this—mmmhhh—is this a standard part of hate sex?"

Any iteration of frenzied kitchen countertop action she's ever imagined didn't really include a man kneeling reverently in front of a woman like this, pressing his hand down against her belly, pinning her to the counter. Taking his time. 

It's so..._intimate?_

There's another muffled response that she can't quite make out. 

And Rey is actually fine with that. 

Because, _oh God_, his tongue is firm and soft in the right combination and she's usually nervous about how vulnerable this particular act makes her feel, but for some reason she feels _very_ okay, lying across the counter with his fancy pendant lamps shining brightly over her body and her heels involuntarily kicking against the cabinet doors. Her abs are fucking _shaking_ now, but it's not like she can just lie back down and _not_ watch this. It's like he knows her—knows about all the wants and desires she's always been too shy to express. She's never even come from this before. She's never— 

*ping* _Yessss. _

*ping* _Oh God. Oh God. OH GOD._

*ping*

*PING*

_Motherfucker_! So maybe it's not the dawning of a new sexual horizon and instead, it's literally a new batch offer coming in. And the pinging will continue to sound, louder and louder from her phone for four more fucking minutes. It's like divine punishment from her corporate overlords. 

"My phone! It's—" Rey feels around the counter for it with her right hand.

*ping*

She feels the yogurts, the container of berries,and the box of condoms.

*ping*

The lemons, the pints of gelato…it could be on her left side, which she can't reach. 

"Ben," she says, grabbing at his hair. 

He pokes his head up, his brow furrowed.

"Are you actually giving me the _tap_?" 

"No! I mean, just for a second. Can you reach my phone?" She nods her head to her left. "The app is pinging me and I can't turn it off, but I can quit out of the app. Or throw it away."

There's the sound of grumbling and a rustling on the counter, and a few seconds later, he's holding out the noisy phone over her chest. 

Rey breathes a sigh of relief.

"Yesss," she hisses and she unlocks it with her thumb and opens the app. A little box immediately pops up with the timer running on her current delivery—still, officially, in progress. She can feel his hair against the inside of her right knee, moving closer and closer along her thigh until he's right back in the perfect spot and she feels herself melting into the counter again.

She's about to dismiss the notification when she notices a second alert. The word RELIABILITY INCIDENT in big, Instacart-green letters snaps her right back into reality. Underneath, is the beginning of a message from Shopper Happiness "Customer Kylo_ren notified Customer Help Center re: poor replacements and inappropriate behavior, please contact…" 

Rey blinks twice. 

It's still there.

"Oh _God_," she says, staring at the screen. "Did you—oh, my God."

"Mmmyoulikethhtt?" 

Rey forces herself upright and shoves her hand against his head. 

"Just _stop_."

She slides off the counter, awkwardly knocking into him on the floor—and _wow_, thigh skin creates a lot of painful friction with polished marble countertops. 

"What—did you want to—are you looking for the bedroom?"

"You _reported_ me?" She steps back into her panties and pulls them up her legs, one side at a time. "And _then_ you tried to fuck me?"

God, it's hard to get dressed quickly with one hand.

"What are you talking ab—"

"Did you complain to customer service? Yes or no?"

Ben looks genuinely confused for a few seconds, before some kind of recognition seems to cut through the sex haze. 

"I—I may have—" he rubs his forehead "—I contacted them when you were shopping. But that was before I knew it was you." He tries to grab her jeans out of her hand, but she whips them away. "I mean, you were in the process of fucking up my entire order, so—"

"I just got a disciplinary action." Her t-shirt is on inside out and backward, but who fucking cares? "That means I can't schedule hours."

"I didn't know they would—"

"This is how I pay my rent! My medical bills!" She puts her right leg through her jeans, swatting away Ben's hand when he tries to assist. "Yes, I messed with a couple things in your order that weren't in stock anyway. You'll get a refund. What do you care?" She steps into the left leg and jumps up and down to pull them up. 

"You're _leaving?_"

"I have to try and pick up some Door Dash deliveries on my way home. That's my station in life."

"You don't need to—" he gets off his knees "Can I—I'll just give you a really big cash tip and you can stay."

"You want me to take a tip for fucking you—" she waves her hand around "—like I'm a—"

"That's _not_ what I meant." 

Rey looks around the tile floor for her sling, only to find him holding it. 

"I'm not taking your money _now_." She snatches the sling out his grip with her right hand before sliding the strap over her head. 

"Wait-wait-wait. Don't just leave—" He looks genuinely panicked.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, _sir_." She grabs the IKEA bag with the peanut butter and the Coco Puffs, and drops one of his bottles of wine into her cooler bag. 

"Rey—"

She brushes past him, heading for the entryway, her reusable bags trailing behind her.

"I did my best with the rest of it, you know," she says, with her hand on the door knob. "Even though you treated me like garbage. I almost reported _you_ from the store. I wish I had." 

Rey slams his door without another word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> way to go, luke's weird nephew.


	3. Chekhov's Condoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many paths to forgiveness. Some are more effective than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a day delayed on posting this! The truth is, people kept posting works and updates that I wanted to read and savor, and I started feeling a little bit gross about Instacock and the gratuitous sex contained in this chapter. 
> 
> But, nevertheless, I have made no edits to the gratuitous sex and questionable taste level! 
> 
> \--
> 
> Publix: Where Shopping is a Pleasure.
> 
> \--

“Naked Wild Honey?"

"Size?"

"Twelve ounce. I’ll grab the apple cider vinegar.”

“Copy that.” Rey trots up the aisle to the shelves filled with every conceivable variation of honey. It’s amazing how fast she and Finn can rip through a Publix batch when they work together. 

" 'Raw and creamed' or organic?"

" 'Raw and creamed!' " 

The shop gives them something active to do besides sitting in awkward semi-silence and avoiding the topic of whether they’re back in friends territory or the kind-of-not-ignoring-each-other zone. 

Rey grabs the twelve ounce container of honey—one that, disappointingly, isn’t shaped like a bear—and drops it back in the cart. 

"What's next?"

“Aisle seventeen. Cereal.” Finn scrolls up and down, double checking for anything else in the vicinity. “Let's grab a carton of eggs—" 

"Cage-free?"

"—organic, pasture-raised. There’s a bunch of breakfast shit in this order."

It turns out that Instacart really needs shoppers in Rey's area—specifically, shoppers who rarely refuse orders, even if they include cases of water, flights of stairs, and miniscule tips. 

At least, Rey assumes that's why the district manager had called to reinstate her ability to work her normal schedule, effective tomorrow. During her five days of gig economy limbo, Rey had picked up hours on Door Dash, Postmates, Amazon Flex, and UberEats when she hadn't been working in Luke's studio. And the time spent there had felt awkward, for reasons she obviously couldn't articulate to her boss. 

It's not like she's spent _that_ much time thinking about his nephew.

His weird, hot, dumbass nephew. 

_Why? _Why did he have to be so good at kissing? Or really just...good at using his mouth on her, in general? It’s not fair.

Sometimes she lets her mind wander, imagining how things could have played out with a different set of _ifs_:

_If_ he hadn't been such a raging asshole in the customer chat. _If_ he had just apologized when she got to the door. _If_ he hadn't run crying to some overworked customer care worker who'd just wanted to make the problem go away by slapping Rey with her third Reliability Incident. (The first two had happened when she had to drop a couple shifts after her arm injury. Rey is nothing, if not "reliable" under normal circumstances.)

She opens a carton of organic, pasture-raised eggs to check for broken shells, before placing it in the cart and forcing her brain back into the conversation at hand.

“...I couldn't believe it. Anyway, she’s working at the Genius Bar, troubleshooting iPhones." Finn pushes the cart around to the next aisle. "But I think she might actually be a literal genius because she turned down a fellowship because it turned out to be funded by a military contractor, which is just—well, I respect it.”

"Definitely," Rey agrees, giving him a tight smile. It's okay for him to talk about another girl. Kind of a relief, actually. It's just...not the most _comfortable _thing in the world. Yet. "She sounds badass." 

It feels so good to see a smile plastered across Finn's face again, that Rey barely even feels the little pang of disappointment at the way they'd hurt each other despite the best of intentions. 

"She is. Okay. Kind Granola, Oats and Honey with Toasted Coconut Clusters. I'll get the cereal."

The thing is, of all the dumb ways Rey could be making a small amount of side hustle money, Instacart is her favorite, even though it’s the hardest work. There's nothing particularly interesting about picking up a giant bag of greasy tacos at 1:17 am and dropping it off at some stoner's apartment. (Actually that _does _have the potential to be interesting, but for other reasons.) There's no skill involved in restaurant delivery. No strategy. There's no opportunity to truly excel. It’s mostly waiting at restaurants and waiting in traffic.

Maybe Instacart is yet another evil capitalist hive of scum and villainy. Maybe the pay structure keeps getting worse and worse. Maybe they keep coming up with new ways to screw shoppers out of tips. But knowing exactly where to find the stupid, expensive granola—and grabbing it ten seconds faster than any other shopper in her zone—is still the most effective way to pay her bills. Some of them, at least.

Finn consults the order again as Rey tosses a seven dollar bag of granola next to the cereal boxes. 

"Good choice," Rey says, looking longingly at the Coco Puffs. "Any cases of water before we finish pantry stuff?" There are always cases of water. It’s like Instacart customers are blissfully unaware of the existence of water filtration systems and reusable water bottles.

"No cases of anything. Weird, right? Oh shit, I forgot the pancetta." Finn starts walking backward toward the deli. "Can you run over to nineteen and grab a container of arborio rice? RiceSelect, thirty-six ounces? I'll be right back." 

She nods and slow-jogs the cart over to the rice and grains, scanning the rows of nearly identical containers of to the tune of Ingrid Michaelson's "Be OK." This fucking song must have been written specifically for suburban grocery stores. 

Basmati...Jasmine...Koshihikari...Texmati Royal Blend...Couscous...Tri-Color Couscous...Pearl Couscous…_Why the fuck does there need to be so much organic couscous in the world?_ Short Grain Brown...Wild Rice...empty shelf slot.

Of course.

Finn  
  
**Rey: **Arborio out of stock. Got a sub?  
  
**Finn: ** there's a note: "Do NOT replace with long grain, I'm making RISOTTO." 😅   
  
he's MAKING RISOTTO🖕🖕🖕  
  
wtf is wrong with people?   
  
brb   
  


Rey lowers the phone and scans the contents of the cart. Two bottles of expensive wine (no screw top), several containers of crimini mushrooms, a jar of Nutella, strawberries (_organic _and rather anemic-looking), a pomegranate, and next to the Coco Puffs, a box of Heritage Flakes. 

**Rey: **what's the customer's name  
  
??????  
  
finn? the name??  
  


"Hey." Finn drops the pancetta into the cart. "I'll text him about the rice." 

She looks up just in time to see Finn carefully setting a bouquet of a dozen long-stem roses in the child's seat of the cart. 

Roses. 

_Oh God_. 

"Finn, what's his name?" she asks, the desperation leaking through in her tone of voice and probably her face.

“Huh?”

"The name—the customer's name in the app?"

"The customer?" He taps on his phone. "Uh…'Kylo Ren? Kilo Ren?' Something like that. Probably trying to impress a date or something." Rey's stomach feels like it's permanently lodged in her throat. "You okay?" She doesn't nod. "D'you know where the candles are? Not the scented ones, like regular three-inch white ones? I need—" he looks down at the app again "—seven. Either there's a hurricane coming that I don't know about, or he's attempting to get laid in the most obvious possible way."

Candles.

Oh God. 

_We're shopping for a bunch of romantic clichés for Luke's weird nephew's _date. 

Oh _God._

This is fine. This is _fine_.

"Finn?" Rey says, trying to pull it together with a casual inflection, "Can I see your phone for a sec?"

He looks puzzled, but hands it over. "Something wrong?"

🍆🍆

Rey looks out the passenger window at the nearly identical-looking modern townhouses. Some real estate developer must've made a fortune when this neighborhood went from "blighted" to "edgy" to "expensive as hell." 

The blue dot on Finn's app gets closer and closer to the little red marker and Rey feels some strange witch's brew of angry, excited, and nauseous. 

God bless Finn. He hadn't exactly been crazy about the idea of Rey substituting out the remaining half of a customer's order with revenge items like a value-size box of tampons and an Italian sub from the deli. And truthfully, she's not positive that Ben won't retaliate in some way. (Clearly, he's gotten over their little encounter.) But Finn doesn't have a single RI on his shopper account, and he's already so giddy about seeing this Genius Bar girl later, that the infatuation seems to have clouded his judgment. If something goes wrong, she'll find a way to make it up to him.

"This is it," he says, pulling into the driveway. "Need help with the bags?"

"Nope. There's nothing too heavy. Just send the 'I'm here' text."

Rey pops open the trunk of his Camry and retrieves two of Finn's reusable bags, filled with groceries. 

"You have my login?" he asks through the open driver's side window, as she makes her way to the stairs. 

"Yep." She glances up at the imposing front door.

"You're sure you don't want me to wait?"

"I'll be fine.” Hopefully. “I have a Lyft code for a free ride. Enjoy your night!"

She'd used the Lyft code two weeks ago and she hasn't actually thought about how she'll get home, but it's definitely better to remove Finn from the equation as soon as possible. 

It feels like there are more stairs this time, even though she only has to climb them once, and with a lighter load than before. Maybe her heart is racing for other reasons. 

Like—she's going to give Luke's weird, hot, dumbass nephew a piece of her mind about the realities of working for an app-based courier service. About relying on customers to somehow understand that the "service fee" isn't the same as a tip and it isn't going to the actual workers at all. About having the decency to treat workers with respect. 

She takes a big breath in and rings the doorbell.

Yes, her heart is definitely racing because she needs to tell him these things that she didn't have time to express when her primary goal was getting out of his sight. 

It's totally not because, for whatever weird, mysterious, against-all-logic reason, she wants to just..._see him_ again. Or touch him again. Or to have him touch her again. Nope, she certainly doesn't want that. 

She's showing up on his doorstep because she wants to fuck him over. Not fuck him. 

Probably. 

Just as she's lifting her right hand to ring the bell a second time (because why would he ever greet a delivery person without being harassed into it?), the door swings open. 

Luke's weird, hot, dumbass nephew is wearing a shirt. 

_Dammit_. 

It's some kind of black button down thing that reveals absolutely nothing about what she knows to be underneath. Well, maybe the buttons are straining slightly. 

He looks...nice. And fully dressed.

Rey hopes the palpable disappointment doesn't show on her face. 

What’s showing on _his_ face is surprise and confusion. He stares at her for a length of time that feels intolerable. 

"There was supposed to be a 'Finn?' " he says, finally. "Did you change your name in the app?"

Rey drops the bags down to the ground and pushes them over the threshold of his door with her foot.

"Finn's my friend. I asked him to let me finish this delivery."

"Oh." Ben's features are a mess of conflicting emotions. She forces herself to look over his shoulder to stay focused on what she needs to say. "I wanted to talk to you about wh—"

"No. I want to do the talking. I need you to listen."

He inhales, like he's about to respond, but he seems to stop himself at the last second. He nods his head towards the kitchen and bends down to pick up all the bags. Rey follows him past the living room and into the kitchen, slightly relieved not to have to bear any more weight on her tired right arm. 

"That was a pretty interesting order,” she says, moderating her tone into something nonchalant and detached. “Are you expecting someone?" 

He sets the bags down on his countertop and Rey tries like hell not to think about the things that had gone down—quite literally—on that marble. 

"I—" he pauses, working his jaw for a few seconds. "Yes. Actually. I was—"

"Yeah, it looked like you had a big night planned. Maybe a big morning, too." _God, why does it almost hurt to say that?_ "Well, I'm sorry, but Publix was out of some of the things on your list, so I had to make some substitutions."

Her heart continues to beat twice as fast as it should while she waits for him to explode in anger, but instead he just raises his eyebrows and reaches into one of the bags, pulling out a square box from the freezer section.

"White Castle sliders?" 

"Yes."

"And that was a replacement for?"

"The brioche dinner rolls."

"Of course." He sticks his hand back in the bag. "TGI Fridays Cheddar and Bacon Potato Skins." He looks up at her. "I take it they were out of...fingerling potatoes?"

"That particular Publix is really having some restocking issues."

He nods twice and drops the potato skins on the counter next to the sliders.

"You're trying to teach me a lesson here?"

"Actually, no. This isn't for your benefit. I was literally buying food for myself. You're going to ask for a refund on all of these replacements and I'm going to take them home and dine like a fucking queen tonight." 

He leans over the counter in a way that seems like an intimidation tactic. 

"_I didn't know it was you_ doing the shopping, when I contacted customer service. I wasn't trying to get you in trouble."

"That's not the point! Your _notes_, your tone, the whole way you interact with people who are performing a service for you? It's rude and unacceptable. It shouldn't matter if _I'm_ shopping for you, or if it's Finn, or anyone else who happens to have the misfortune of accepting your order when their phone starts pinging at them."

"But you deliberately bought items I didn't want. You were screwing with—"

"Yes. Okay? Yes, I escalated it when I should have reported your ass to Shopper Happiness the second you started cursing at me." 

"Why didn't you?"

"I wanted the tip." Ben raises his eyebrows. "Not like that. Literally, we basically live off tips, not that you would know that, because Instacart uses tactics that discourage customers from tipping. And they would've just redirected your order to some other hapless shopper, who you also would've terrorized. Do you think Instacart disciplines customers?"

He shakes his head. "Rey, I told you. I’m not good with people."

"I just felt so—so _angry_ about the way you communicated with me—your arrogance—that eventually, it wasn't even about the tip anymore. The things you said to me? To 'RJ?' It was like you actually thought I was beneath you. Not like that. Jesus,” she says before he can make any kind of remark. “Do you talk to the person who cleans your house like that?"

"We don't speak. I leave notes."

"Yeah, that's exactly your problem. There are human beings, like me, who get paid _very little_ to deal with your bullshit. Grocery shopping sucks. That's why people like _you_ are willing to pay more money just to have someone else—that's _me_—do it for you. It's not that hard to be polite, say 'please' and 'thank you,' have a fucking _ounce_ of patience, and tip well." Rey feels herself exhale. "And maybe do a little reading about how these companies treat their workers."

It's silent in the kitchen for a few moments, except for the hushed electronic sound of his appliances humming softly in the background.

Ben swallows. 

"My VC firm invested in Instacart four years ago." 

Rey feels her head move backward a tiny bit, like he's physically projecting this bombshell at her through the air between them.

"So the misleading 'service fees' are really just going into your pocket?" 

"I mean...I don't really know the particulars, but—"

"Okay. So, you're not only an unrepentant abusive customer, but you're also complicit in disenfranchising the workforce that I'm part of?"

"I'm not 'unrepentant!' "

"You didn't apologize for being a complete asshole of a customer, right off the bat, to _whoever_ happened to be shopping for you."

"I'm sorry." He looks deep into her eyes in a way that feels too intense and she forces herself to look anywhere else—at the tasteful graphics on the White Castle sliders box, for example. "To whoever was shopping for me. The notes I left were...overly aggressive."

"And your tip should've been higher."

"And my tip should have been higher. I'm sorry."

It's almost annoying that the apology seems genuine. It's anticlimactic, somehow. It's not like she'd pictured them arguing bitterly for ten minutes before angrily feeding each other strawberries and then somehow transitioning into standing-up hate sex against that giant stainless steel fridge. 

Nope, that very specific imagery is not at all something Rey has been thinking about during her week of Insta-purgatory.

"Are you going to apologize for fucking up my order?”

"No.”

"No?”

"I literally received a five-day punishment from my corporate overlords for that. There was zero consequence for you, except that you didn’t get your Toblerone.”

"I ordered another one,” he admits.

"Love that for you. So, I was going to take this stuff with me, back to the apartment that I can barely afford, even though I work every single day," she says, whipping up some extra feelings of indignation, as she prepares to make some kind of exit. "But I guess I'm walking home and I can't carry it all with my right hand, so I'm going to take the tampons and the sandwich and leave the rest here with you and hope that it ruins your date tonight."

She's reaching into Finn's reusable bag for her phone—maybe a Lyft code will appear in her account as if by magic or divine providence—when Ben grabs her hand.

"You didn't ruin my night." His thumb presses into her palm in a way that she doesn't hate, but she forces herself to pull away, anyway.

"I thought you said you were expecting someone."

"I've been ordering lightweight items from Instacart and offering huge tips for five days, hoping you'd accept one of the orders."

Rey sucks in a breath, hoping her sense of relief isn't as obvious as it feels. 

"So all the stuff in your order was—" 

"For you. Or at least to get your attention. I didn't have another way to contact you. Except Luke, and I sure as hell wasn't about to do that. Look—"

Ben takes a few steps past her and opens the door to a pantry that is much too large for one man. Rey turns her head to peer inside. On an upper shelf, above dozens of other artisanal, organic packages, sit four boxes of Coco Puffs. 

"I also have three six packs of Danimals in the fridge." 

"I was suspended. I couldn’t receive orders—"

"I know, but I called right after you left and retracted the complaint," he says, standing a little too close behind her. "I said it was a misunderstanding. I assumed they just fixed it. Did they? Should I call again—"

She's still staring at the Coco Puffs. Of course this powerful white man would assume that one phone call solves everything, instantly. 

"I have my normal hours back tomorrow morning, so I guess it's...whatever." 

When she finally turns around to face him, he's holding a small potted basil plant in her direction. "Were they 'out' of roses?" 

Rey bites her lip, hesitating for a few seconds before reaching out for the basil. 

"It's more practical anyway." She holds the plant up to her nose, breathing in the herbaceous green fragrance. "Roses just wilt."

"Did you happen to purchase the candles?"

"You mean the Febreze Candle with Gain Scent?" She permits her lips to curve up into a little satisfied smile. "And the Glade Two-in-One Hawaiian Breeze and Vanilla Passion Fruit Candle? Sure did."

"I think I'm just beginning to understand the extent of your anger, here," Ben says, taking a step toward her.

"Yeah, and you've really done very little to put a dent in it." She holds out her fingers about an inch apart. "Do you have any idea how many Door Dash and Postmates deliveries I've had to make this week? To offset the suspension? With one functional arm?"

"Let me make it up to you." He takes another step and there's only one slate floor tile separating them.

"How?" She has some ideas, but she wants to know what his are. 

Ben looks back at the paper bags and the bizarre array of revenge products lined up on the counter. 

"This would have been a more enticing proposition with my original order, but...I wanted to make you dinner."

_The risotto_. Damn. It actually sounded really good. 

But, truthfully, she's hungry enough right now that she'd devour any of her creative replacements without a second thought.

"The thing is," she says, reaching her right arm over to the counter and digging a bottle of wine out from one of the bags, "I find potato skins very seductive.” 

"Maybe with a little black truffle oil drizzled over the top?"

"But not white truffle oil, because that would be _insane_." Rey realizes that she has neither a corkscrew, nor a second working hand with which to open the wine (_screwtop wine has its advantages_), so she hands it off to Ben, who promptly retrieves some futuristic-looking lever-style corkscrew and opens the bottle in one fluid motion. 

"Alexa, turn the oven to four fifty." Maybe he senses the slight glint of disapproval on her face, because he adds, "Did you want me to say 'please' and 'thank you' to a computer?"

"It would be good practice," she points out, as he opens an upper cabinet and reaches for two wine glasses, handing one to Rey. "_Thank you_. See, it's easy."

"Okay," he says, setting his glass right back down on the counter next to that beautiful, wide refrigerator and closing the distance between them in one Ben-sized step. He touches her cheek with his open palm, tipping her chin up toward his face. "Please."

Maybe it defeats the purpose that he doesn't really wait for her to respond in the affirmative, but she also doesn't give a shit at this particular moment. Because he's still really, really good at this—at kissing her like it's his goddamn mission, and he's been training for it his entire adult life. It's something about the way he uses his whole body, pressing her back against stainless steel door of the fridge, running his hand across her face and down her neck and burying the other in her hair, so he can grab just enough to pull her head back slightly. His mouth works its soft, tingly magic on her throat and she likes the way she feels a little exposed and open to him like this. 

“This doesn't mean I forgive you," she says, but it comes out more like a breathy whisper. 

He tugs on her hair again, moving her head a bit further to the side, his lips moving down her neck and toward her collarbone and the neckline of her loose white t-shirt. The metal feels cold against her back. His other hand moves from her cheek down her waist, under the thin cotton of the shirt and makes its way up to her bralette. He yanks on the cup and she lets out a little spontaneous gasp when she feels his thumb and forefinger around her nipple, pulling lightly, making it stiff.

“Does _this_ mean you forgive me?”

"No," she insists, with a tiny shake of her head. 

He doesn't seem too terribly deterred because she can feel his hard length through his pants, pressing into the lower part of her belly, and God, that's the element that's still a bit of a mystery, isn't it? Like he's in her head again, he moves an inch or two closer, the material of his pants creating some kind of tempting friction with the much-thinner fabric of her leggings. 

She reaches down with her right hand, snaking it in between their bodies and grabbing for the button of his pants. He pushes her against the refrigerator again, and although this had technically been the setting of one of the idle fantasies that she definitely did _not_ have this week, it's cold and unforgiving and she just wants to do this on something soft and padded this time.

"Mmmmm. Ben?" It's possible he makes some muffled noise in response. "You do own pillows, right? You can fuck women in rooms that aren't kitchens, too?" 

He pulls back, taking a big breath. 

"The bedroom's upstairs.” He nods in the direction of the front door. “Or there's a couch twelve feet from here."

"Couch. Definitely couch," she says, grabbing the bottle of wine, and not bothering with her glass. 

🍆🍆

"Let me this time. Please."

Rey nods as he unfastens the strap and carefully slides the sling away from her left arm. 

"Lift it over the right side first?"

"Yeah." She resists the urge to help as he gently removes the shirt, followed by her gray and white striped bralette. It all lands somewhere on the wood floor. 

They're sitting on a pristine leather couch, which makes her a tiny bit nervous, but Ben doesn't seem concerned at all. Why would he be? He's not the one who would have to clean it. 

"Put this back on," he says, reaching for the sling. "Your arm might get jostled." 

Rey makes a face. "I'm not going to be naked, except for a sling. I'll just try not to move it."

"You're not going to be able to hold still. Not the way I do this."

The man makes a convincing argument. 

_Sling it is_.

Ben places the strap across her chest and tucks her elbow into the closed end of the sling. He kisses the soft skin on her stomach as he eases himself to his knees on the floor in front of the sofa. 

She's been annoyed and inconvenienced and, frankly, embarrassed by her left arm for a month, but he doesn't seem to mind that it requires a little extra consideration. It feels kind of..._nice_ to let someone else be concerned about it. To force her to slow down or be careful instead of just pretending it's fine. 

He digs his fingers under the waistband of her leggings, before pulling them off and tossing them somewhere behind him, leaving her in her underwear. _Couldn't have randomly picked today to put on a nice lacy pair? _Of course not. 

But apparently, Ben couldn't give less of a fuck about anything to do with the underwear, aside from the very obvious wet spot and getting them off. Rey closes her eyes and leans back into the pillows as he yanks the panties down just below her hips before pausing. She can feel his nose grazing just above the waistband, his breath leaving a warm trail across her skin. 

He's taking his time, his hands still gripping the stretchy orange cotton of her underwear; it's the most delightful agony. 

He moves them down another inch, his mouth following tantalizingly close behind and he just needs to keep going...a little bit further…_come on...come on_...

"Do you forgive me now?"

"No," she says as resolutely as one can, when you're about half an inch away from—

She feels him rip the elastic waistband down her thighs in one lightning fast motion and then they're just gone...into the mysterious living room void with her other clothes.

Rey opens her eyes. He nudges her legs a lot further apart, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and gazes reverently at her body like a starving man might stare at a Big Mac. Or, in Ben's case, a meal at The French Laundry, finished with Himalayan Pink Salt. 

She's never really felt like anyone else's desire before. Like a birthday present. Like someone's drug of choice. It could be the several large gulps of wine she swallowed on the way from the kitchen to the living room, but this feels a bit intoxicating on its own. 

He dips his head down, and she tenses up immediately, her stomach muscles clenching in anticipation of something extremely intense right off the bat. But he actually holds back, nibbling on her inner thigh, teasing, just breathing on her without making direct contact, and she can already feel her chest violently rising and falling just from this. 

Yeah, the sling had been a good idea. 

He grabs a throw pillow (probably an absurdly expensive one) from somewhere, and shoves it under her hips. When he finally lowers his mouth to her, he starts with slow, broad strokes, giving her just enough pressure until she needs more, until she's pleading for it in a whiny voice that doesn't even sound like hers, until her hips start moving so much, he has to hold her down with both hands. He waits until she feels like she's going to burst, and _then_ he gives her more speed or firmness, until the cycle starts over again. 

Not a goddamn moment before. Maybe he _can_ be patient.

After a few minutes of this (although, it's not like time is thing she's consciously aware of in this state), she's ready to come. So fucking ready. Never been _more_ ready for an orgasm. 

And that's when when he slides a finger inside her and crooks it a little bit and Rey feels her entire body jolt fully off the cushions. 

"Ffffuck. Oh fuck," seems to be a thing she is saying over and over like a broken record. Apparently his tongue has the ability to erase 99.999999% of her vocabulary and she communicates solely in sexpletives now. 

Her hand reaches down to grab at his hair, because it's the only part of him she can reach and God, he seems to love having his hair pulled, but also seems to hate that it takes his mouth away from her pussy. 

The way he moves his finger in this particular motion, firm and repetitive, makes her back arch off the couch with each stroke. That, and the combination of the way he's sucking on her clit and also kind of looking up at her. 

It turns out that when she's really feeling this, she does move around kind of a lot, even though he has her pinned with a hand splayed just below her bellybutton. She must have slid steadily down on the couch over the last few minutes, because she's practically lying flat on her back on the cushions. Her right hand reaches wildly behind her for the back of the couch—anything solid and stationary to hold onto.

"B-Ben. Please. I'm—I'm—_I'm—_" 

Maybe he likes hearing his own name, or likes when _other people_ say "please," because he presses down on her belly again and pushes hard against her front wall with his finger. Rey feels her muscles tensing and tensing and _tensing_, until she can’t hang on anymore. The climax breaks over her like a giant wave, washing across every inch of skin, every nerve ending. 

He holds her steady while she comes down, shaking, with her heart racing faster than it ever does when she's climbing someone's apartment stairs with two cases of soda. Her breathing is still nothing more than choppy panting, like there's not quite enough oxygen in the room. 

"Rey?" He's breathing really hard, too. "Thank you. For that.”

_Inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale_.

"Good apology."

“So you forgive me?”

_Inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale_.

“...no.”

"Rey?"

_Inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale_.

"Y-yes?"

"This is getting a little suspicious."

"I can _really_—" _inhale-exhale_ "—hold a grudge." 

She raises her right hand to his shirt and slips one of the buttons through the hole, revealing a slice of pale skin. 

"Okay," he says, sitting up a bit more on his knees, as she works on the next button. "Well I can _really_ come up with more ways to apologize."

Rey has had over a month of practice with single handedly undoing buttons and it's finally paying off.

"Like?" Rey glances down at his still frustratingly _on_ pants. 

He rises to his feet. 

"I researched sex positions for people with broken arms.”

"You-you did?” She watches him unzip.

"Yes. I mean, I Googled it. And most of the suggestions were geared toward men, but—” 

"As long as you’re not expecting me to do push-ups while you fuck me, I think I’ll be fine. I mean, I did have one idea.”

She gets up on her knees and bends over the wide arm of the sofa, with the soft, expensive leather material against her stomach, before looking back at him over her left shoulder. 

"You’re probably going to bang your arm into the couch like that," he says, tucking the world's most versatile throw pillow under her left elbow. “You picked one of the only positions where you need your arms.”

"I’m leaning on my right elbow!”

"If you insist…”

Rey looks down at the dark wood floor, still breathing hard. There's the sound of clothing dropping to the ground behind her, and then...._footsteps_. 

Footsteps walking away from the couch. 

"Ben?" she calls, shifting uncomfortably, balancing her weight on her right arm. She waits, listening for the faint sounds of—maybe there's a door opening?

The footsteps return, getting closer...closer…

Something cardboard and lightweight falls onto his glass coffee table. Out of the corner of her eye, Rey sees the words "Trojan" and "Magnum." 

"Chekhov's condoms," he announces.

"That's the same box?" 

"Just how quickly do you think I go through an entire box of these?"

"Is that a question or a challenge?"

Rey turns her head back to look at him, which is actually a double-edged sword, because _holy shit_, he has been given a _gift_ by some divine entity, but the question of how she's going to fit that gift in her body is...concerning.

The couch cushions dip a lot lower as he kneels behind her.

"Slow?" she says, cautiously. “Okay?”

She can feel that gift poking into her ass cheek, just before he rolls the condom on.

"Just tell me if it's too much."

He places his left hand down next to her propped up elbow and starts to guide himself inside her with his right. 

Almost immediately, it feels like it might be too much, like there’s just no way he could possibly fit, but she wills herself to relax and keep going. 

"You okay?" he says, into her ear. "You're not breathing. It helps if you breathe."

It actually does kind of help. 

"I'm going to stay still," he continues, "and you can just move back onto me." 

Rey grips the leather armrest and exhales as she moves her hips back, a little bit at a time, until the fullness feels like something pleasurable instead of something that could split her in half.

When she takes him all the way in, he grabs her around the chest—being mindful of her sling—and rests his forehead on the back of her neck. 

"Fuck," he mutters. "_Fuck_." 

That's basically her sentiment, too. 

After a few breaths of stillness, he starts to move, thrusting into her with enough force to make her breasts shake.

Actually, the best thing about this position is that he has two free hands and he _really_ seems to like using them: on her neck and her good shoulder, in her hair, digging into her hip.

She's leaning toward the right as much as she can, but it's hard to stay balanced and pretty soon she's practically hugging the armrest with her right arm and her left arm is in danger of getting crushed. The whole couch feels like it's moving across the wood floor, an inch at a time. 

"Ben—_Ben!_ My arm." He stills right away. "My arm's shifting around too much."

"Fuck. Okay. Sorry." He pulls out carefully. “I won’t say I told you so.” 

Rey sits back on her knees, catching her breath. “You just did.” 

"Can we try it my way now? Please?" 

Ben lies on his right side and motions for her to do the same, in front of him. She settles in, her back pressed against his front, with no weight on her left side, at all. 

"Better?" he asks, running his fingers down her left thigh.

For a second, she wonders if he only intends to spoon her. It would probably feel perfectly _nice_, but he’s already worked her back up to throbbing, and cuddling isn’t going to be nearly enough.

"Yeah, this is...okay, but—" he grabs behind her bent left knee and pulls it upward, spreading her legs wide open "—_oh shit_." 

_Okay, so there won’t be any cuddling._

He enters her with a shallow, experimental thrust. And then a slightly deeper one, and then _much_ deeper, until she can feel his balls against her ass and he's moving inside her at a steady rhythm. Almost..._pounding_, really.

"Better?" 

"Uh—uh—yeah, this is—Oh God."

This? Has never been part of her repertoire. It feels like he's going to fuck her right off the front of the couch until he moves his right arm to hold her tight against his chest.

“What about now?” he asks, between grunts. "Are we—_fuck_—did I make it up to you yet?"

“Ah…_ahhhh_...I’m still—_oh God_—still pretty upset." He pulls her leg up a little bit higher. "Ahhh. Yeah, you're—you're on the right track, though. Holy—_holy shit._"

She feels his mouth on the back of her neck again as he picks up the pace, like he can't keep himself in check anymore. Her own moaning starts to build into something throaty and desperate. 

"I need you to come for me again." His voice is ragged. "Please. Rey, I need—"

His right hand moves lower until his fingers are rubbing furiously at her clit. It feels like she’s on the precipice of giving him everything—letting her last little bit of restraint disintegrate into nothing as she instinctively squeezes harder around his cock. Like the thing she wants most in the world—no, _needs_—is to feel him lose control. Right now.

And Ben is more than ready to give her that. She finds her release a few seconds later, screaming something nonsensical as he buries himself to the hilt. 

The orgasm is still rolling across her exhausted body when Ben yells something _fuck_-adjacent and she feels his muscles tense up and go limp, followed by a pulsing inside her. 

"Please" truly is a magic word.

🍆🍆

An hour later, Ben is lying half on top of her, his big body draped across the not-quite-big-enough couch. He's nearly passed out, but Rey has never been more wired. In fact, if he wasn't so damn _heavy_, she would get up and get herself a snack of Danimals and Coco Puffs.

But lying here like this is okay, too. 

She's come many times before. Mostly from her own hands or various vibrating things controlled by her own hands. But not like _that_. Never like that. 

“_Now_ do you forgive me?” he mumbles, his eyes still shut. Rey feels a little flutter of pride at wearing him out so thoroughly.

“Oh," she says, very casually. "That wasn’t the thing I needed you to do as penance. But thank you, anyway.”

Ben blinks his eyes open and lifts his head an inch.

“Are you going to force feed me a Kinder Bueno?” 

“Later. Obviously. But that’s not it, either. Are you busy tomorrow morning?”

“Why?”

"Are you busy or not? It's a Saturday, so I assume you're not spending your time bleeding companies dry."

He pinches at her inner thigh in retribution. 

"I'm not busy, except to set aside time to explain to you how venture capital works."

“Tomorrow at eight a.m. is my glorious return to full service Instacart shopping."

"You shouldn't be working so much when you're injured."

"Yeah, you're right. And you might be shocked to learn that we don't get medical leave." He starts to interrupt, but she continues. "But it's good that you realize that, because it's really hard work: the picking, the carrying, the driving, the customer service. I could use some help with the orders. And I don’t have my car here, so I’m gonna need someone to drive me around.”

“Like a manager.”

“Like my assistant.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Ben maneuvers himself on top of her again.

“And you’re sure I didn’t _more_ than make this up to you by going down on you for like forty minutes total?”

Rey looks directly into his dark eyes, recalling the highlights of the last (pretty epic) hour, and replies, firmly, “Yeah, that wasn’t enough.”

"Plus all the sex?"

"Mmmm. Nope."

“You came three times.”

“Yeah, no. I’m gonna need you to understand what it takes to do this job.” 

"Okay." He buries his head in between her neck and right shoulder. "Okay, I'll go shopping with you tomorrow."

"Good. I hope I get, like, ten orders with cases of alkaline water."

He lays a row of kisses across her collarbone, working his way down to her breasts, before glancing back up.

“You're lucky I have a huge—"

"Yes?"

"—trunk."

"I can't _wait_ until you get your first replacement." He bites down gently on her nipple. "Ow! I hope you get a customer who requests a _phone call_ before checkout."

"Does this mean you’re spending the night?”

"I think you should tell Alexa to _please_ turn the oven back up to four-fifty." Rey slides down a little bit deeper into the cushions. "I'm starving."

"I just hope you didn't replace all the breakfast stuff I ordered."

"Ben, you're going to love Jimmy Dean Blueberry Pancakes and Sausage on a stick." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. [These issues with Instacart are real.](https://www.fastcompany.com/90425234/your-grocery-delivery-might-be-slow-this-week-heres-why) I tried to do quite a bit of research, even though this is just dumb Reylo porn. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting! The reactions to this have been incredibly fun. If you enjoyed this fic, might I humbly recommend [Birthday Sex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669510), which is a similar length and smut-level? (I also recommend birthday sex, in life.) Or, for a longer read, [ Doing the Unstuck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877074), which is a slow-burn-ish, angsty rom com, inspired by When Harry Met Sally.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/slipgoingunder) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/slipgoingunder). I'm probably slipgoingunder on any platform, now and future, which is the advantage of a username comprised of obscure Cure lyrics.


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